All the Wrong Things

I hate my friends tonight.  I don't have any.  I am sitting in the 1960s living room of my mother's house listening to the soundtrack of either "Gunsmoke" or "The Rifleman," or rather, the commercials that equal the actual shows in airtime.  I will lose more of my mind this evening.  

Fuck you all. 

I say that knowing that nobody comes to read the blog anymore.  I've been outcast from almost everywhere.  I am a lost vessel floating in the vacuumed ether of the cosmos where there is no light or sound.  In the silent blackness of existence, I continue to dribble my pathetic mew.  The rest of humanity does whatever they do.  

I was miserable with guilt, alcohol, and THC when I woke this morning.  Yesterday morning, depending on when I post.  I had no milk for my strong coffee, so I drove to the only thing open nearby to get some.  

Coffee helped.  

My mother was up.  I asked her if she wanted to go to CostCo.  Sure.  So, after I made some dry toast for her, that is what we did.  

She got lost in CostCo.  I just let her wander and find her way.  There was no danger as far as I could discern.  

When we checked out, I asked her if she would like to go to the local "health food" store.  She was game. 

When we had done that, I asked her if she wanted to do anything else.  

"We could get something to eat."

I wasn't hungry at all, but sure.  

"What would you like to get?"

That began a long discussion.  I didn't know where to eat on this side of town.  She said, "Perkins."

O.K.  I'd never eaten at one before.  I don't do that.  I've never eaten at any of them--Zaxby's, Culvers, etc. But I was game to make her happy.  

Now. . . I will be an asshole.  Judge me.  It's O.K.  I'll try to be a colorful asshole, at least.  

Perkins is the filthiest place I've ever eaten.  There is grease on the plastic menus.  The translucent headboards between booths have never been washed.  Our host "cleaned" the table with an old, dirty dishrag.  Our server was a cockeyed redneck who called me "sweetheart."  The lintel that held the window had a dust and grease layer half an inch thick.  

Oh, goody.  

My mother ordered pancakes.  I didn't look at the menu.  I try to know what I want.  

"I'd like three eggs over medium, bacon, hash browns, and rye toast," I told the waitress.  "You figure it out."

"That's our Builder's menu with an extra egg," she smiled.  

I asked her for her number.  As my conservative friend texted, you never know when you'll need a plumber. 

As we waited, I looked around the restaurant.  It was the same crowd we had seen at CostCo.  They wore old Kirkland clothing. . . oversized t-shirts and faded Kirkland jeans.  A full denim "Fonzi" walked past our table.  He had on some off-brand high-top Converse Chucks and a pair of cheap aviator sunglasses.  As he passed, he gave me the stink eye.  He was a "regular," I suspected.  He probably knew all the waitresses by name.  The crowd was heavy.  XL.  

Our food came.  Then the check.  I had ordered without looking at the menu, and I had forgotten about egg prices.  My mother, looking at the check, went into shock.  

The waitress explained to her that a six layered box of eggs that the restaurant ordered cost $70 last week.  This week it cost $210!  

My mother said her pancakes were bad.  

"They must have not used eggs.  It was all water and flour," she said.

As we left, we passed Punchy and Slappy walking in.  This was MAGA country for sure.  I didn't care to wait for Pork Chop and T-Bone.  

"The probably think you are undercover for the N.Y. Times," said my conservative friend.  

At least, though, my mother and I had bonded again.  It relieved some of the guilt.  

"Everybody hits their limit at some point," one of my girlfriends wrote.  "You are human. The remorse is human too,"  It was a pretty good statement.  Sometimes I underestimate people.  

My new friend wrote me twice from Miami.  

"You lift my spirits," I wrote back.  

O.K.  So I don't hate all my friends.  

But pretty much.  

Maybe, I sometimes think, I don't really have any friends.  Maybe nobody does.  

The pills remain in the bedside stand.  

In the afternoon, I left my mother's to go to my house.  I have much to do.  But I don't do it.  The power cable for the movie light arrived.  I went to the garage to get the light and a stand, and in the bedroom, I hooked it all up.  I got my bib GFX and took a pic.  

"This has some potential."  

And so I dreamt.  I went to the computer and looked up LED photo lights.  Yes. . . I could spend more money.  Who, however, do I think I will photograph?  Where?  

I have a very active imagination that often does not serve me well.  Indeed, it has cot me much.  

Oh, shit.  I have to explain.  That photo at top is from the Sunday disaster shoot.  Nothing worked, and so I took out my little--quit it-- Fuji X100VI with flash, and shot a couple pics.  I was kinda psyched.  The images looked like those fashion photos by Terry Richardson before he got in trouble for showing his dick (link).  I think the photo looks much like that.  I may try it again.  

My mother watches t.v.  Maybe I'll try to watch "The Long Goodbye" by Robert Altman again.  I'm feeling a little like Elliot Gould's Marlowe tonight,  

"It's O.K. with me, lady."  

I watch the film one or two times each year.  

There was a lot going on that I missed today.  "It's O.K. with me," I think.  

Top of the list was the Porchfest in Grit City.  My "date" from last year sent me a picture of the two of us with our friends at last year's fest.  Well, shit, I thought.  That was a lot of fun.  

There are "arts" things going on all around town, too.  What the public imagination deems "art" anyway.  I don't mind missing that, either, though in both cases I miss the chance of photographing.  But I have something else in mind.  

I made a fried halibut, jasmine rice, and broccoli and Brussels sprout dinner tonight.  It was no more than "fine."  I tend to fry things on too high a heat, though.  It's O.K.  I ate the burned parts.  

Now I'm a bit into my cups.  I wait for the text message that isn't coming.  That's o.k., too.  I am a rock.  I am an island.  

I will go watch television with my mother now.  Selavy.  Life is not a cabaret most times.  It is a mundane something else.  

Still. . . I hate my friends. . . who I do not have.  

* * *

I did that last night instead of texting people.  That is a good thing.  "Keep your hands off the keyboard when you're drinking."  Can you imagine?

I didn't watch "The Long Goodbye."  I watched "Daddio" instead (link).  Fuck me.  I'm not sure I'd recommend it, but. . . .  Dakota Johnson, daughter of Melanie Griffith and Don Johnson, is terribly watchable.  Sean Penn. . . what happened?  

Sunday.  I have no plans.  Nothing.  Nada.  Zip.  Bagel.  

Another cup of coffee and maybe a chocolate croissant.